


Burning through the sky

by improfem, laurashapiro



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale has a vulva, Body Swap, Celebratory Sex, Crowley has a vulva, Cunnilingus, Cut Scene, Established Relationship, Love in an Elevator, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Podfic Welcome, Queer as Fuck, Quick and Dirty, Semi-Public Sex, Slight Canon Divergence, ineffable husbands, self-love is so important y'all, slight narcissism, unbetaed we fall like Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/improfem/pseuds/improfem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro
Summary: “Just as you predicted. Don’t worry, there’s not a scratch on you -- me -- oh, dear, this is going to be terribly confusing.” And then Aziraphale is clutching his lapels and pulling him up (up!) into a kiss.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 335





	Burning through the sky

**Author's Note:**

> So there is  that scene  in the script book and, as many have mentioned before, we were robbed. Improfem suggested we do something about it.

The thing about heaven is… it’s sterile. All glistening white expanses, impossibly high windows and arching ceilings. Minimalistic and cold. As he makes his way down the endless hall, Crowley understands for the first time why Aziraphale flinches a little every time he steps into Crowley’s home. They won’t allow for any feeling, those glistening marble floors and polished pillars. Except, maybe, fear. 

The thing about Crowley is… he really, really doesn’t care. His palms are sweaty and his heart is racing and he could swear there’s a tingle of hellfire lingering on his skin. But he’s made it, and he’s fucking _elated_ , and no nightmare architecture will be able to take this from him. So there. 

Crowley can count peak experiences on the pointy fingers of one hand (hmm, fingers much less pointy at the moment, hands much softer -- he raises them to his face and admires Aziraphale’s supple skin), and roaring hellfire at that prat Gabriel is definitely going at the top of the list. Right after the first time he kissed Aziraphale. And the first time he fucked Aziraphale. And the first time he went down on Aziraphale. And, for that matter, the last time he went down on Aziraphale. Hm. Maybe there have been more peak experiences than he thought. He grins. He wants to wipe his hands on something but he doesn’t dare besmirch Aziraphale’s trousers, not even with what is technically Aziraphale’s own sweat.

He makes for the escalators but notices a clot of angels standing about at the head of the moving stairway, waving shiny translucent aethereal tablets and talking in agitated tones. Crowley swerves quickly, or maybe swerves isn’t quite the right word in this body, it doesn’t so much swerve as wiggle, toward the bank of elevators. No one, fortunately, is there.

Crowley presses the call button and it promptly lights up, all blue-green and glowy, and he reflects that the call buttons in Hell don’t work at all and then and then _slam_ , there’s the fear, bursting through his exuberance and smashing his guts to the floor. Aziraphale is in Hell and he might never come out. Crowley’s triumph evaporates and he breaks out in a fresh layer of sweat, just as the elevator dings.

The doors slide open. Aziraphale is inside.

It's not the first time Crowley has been thankful for the luxurious bulk of this body, but the reason is new. With a step and half a thought, he is inside the elevator, crowding Aziraphale against the wall to shield him from any passing angels, and smashing the 'close doors' button as if his life depends on it. Which it possibly does. 

"What in Satan’s name are you doing here??" 

The words fall awkwardly off his tongue. No hiss, for one thing. And then there's The Look he gets for taking that name into this holy-by-association mouth. It looks out of place on his own features, without soft lips to purse in disapproval.

"I wanted to see that you're alright." 

Crowley's brain grasps for a response, but all that comes out are a few, garbled syllables. As much as he wants to yell and hiss at Aziraphale for risking his just-barely-saved immortal life all over again, he tries to picture the reverse scenario in which Aziraphale is not there, and he patiently waits in the lobby like they agreed - and he can't. 

He rakes his eyes over Aziraphale -- his body looks fine, a bit damp, his shirt is undone and Aziraphale has his jacket slung over one arm. Is _he_ all right? “Holy water, then?”

“Just as you predicted. Don’t worry, there’s not a scratch on you -- me -- oh, dear, this is going to be terribly confusing.” And then Aziraphale is clutching his lapels and pulling him up (up!) into a kiss.

Just before their lips meet, however, Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he presses Crowley back with a hand at his chest. “I’ve been thinking about this all the way up and now I almost did something very stupid.” He clicks his fingers and Crowley feels the shimmer of a miracle. “There. All dry.” His lips quirk up into one of Crowley’s naughtier smiles. “For the moment.”

Crowley huffs surprise into his mouth as he discovers what his tongue feels like from the other direction. Oh, that is wicked, that is. Just that bit too long and too salacious, flickering against the tender skin of his underlip. 

And then Aziraphale spins him around and pins him against the wall, whereupon Crowley almost staggers under the weight of deja vu. There’s a flutter in his chest and a rush of liquid in his knees. And his cunt. Oh, yes, his cunt is suddenly very interested in the proceedings. Aziraphale is moaning and nibbling his throat, precisely the place where Aziraphale himself likes to be nibbled, and Crowley can feel right now exactly what it does to him, hair rising on the nape of his neck.

Wait. “ _What_ is going to be terribly confusing?”

Aziraphale pulls back and removes his sunglasses. It’s a bit weird for a moment, seeing Aziraphale behind his snake eyes, but the expression he’s wearing is pure bastard angel -- and rampant with lust. “I am going to find out what you can taste with this serpent tongue of yours,” says Aziraphale, and promptly drops to his knees.

Crowley gapes for a moment, wanting to cry out _Here? Now???_ like some ridiculous heroine in a bodice-ripper. The elevator is private, except for the security cameras, at which Crowley tosses a quick demonic miracle (security guards Above and Below will now be treated to an everlasting feed of _Are You Being Served?_ ). It’s silent, apart from the muted, Muzak rendition of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell being piped in through hidden speakers. It’s also relatively clean, considering it also goes to Hell. “How -- how long does this ride usually last?” he stammers.

“Long enough,” Aziraphale growls in Crowley’s growl, rapidly unfastening the elaborate buttons on his wool trousers and shoving them and his underwear down in an impatient gesture born of centuries of practice. And then Crowley feels the heat of his mouth against the shaft of his clit, and he melts against the wall -- why are there no grab-bars in this thing? -- and scrabbles at Aziraphale’s head for purchase.

Hair gel. For a look that's mostly held in place by infernal miracles, there's a surprising amount of hair gel. The thought has barely crossed Crowley's mind when Aziraphale looks up and smirks at him, and - fuck, it's _hot._ It's a look Crowley has seen on Aziraphale a thousand times, and it's one he will never tire of. _Don't move now, dear, not if you know what's good for you._ Should it be this hot to see it play out on his own face?

However long this elevator ride is, it's not long enough to sort out existential questions about demonic libido. Aziraphale seems to agree. He pushes Crowley back into the wall, tongue winding around his clit in a distinctly inhuman way, and Crowley’s knees threaten to give out. Luckily, Aziraphale is one step ahead of him, and has two hands on his hips, holding him up. 

It’s good, it’s so fucking good. No wonder they almost fell behind on their quotas back in… whenever it was Aziraphale first discovered Crowley’s serpentine tongue could be put to this interesting use. An image flashes through Crowley’s mind, of Aziraphale’s hand twisting in a fur bedroll, a gush of hot fluid on his own face, and he can almost taste the echo of it on this new, angelic tongue.

He grinds forward, urged on by the memory, and Aziraphale smiles against him. It's such a subtle sensation, really, there's no reason it should even register with Crowley that much, but _fuck._ His angel is here, and he's safe, and he's absolutely revelling in having Crowley like this. What's more, Crowley knows exactly what it's like to be where Aziraphale is now, pressing against those gloriously plush folds and absolutely buzzing with it, and the realisation makes his cunt gush all over again.

There is a metallic clink, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and Crowley’s gaze travels downward. His brain registers several things at once: first, one of Aziraphale’s hands is no longer on his hips. Second, it is currently stuffed into a pair of far too tight-fitting jeans, working in quick, concentrated circles. And third, Aziraphale was absolutely, positively not exaggerating when he teased Crowley about having a body built for temptation.

Aziraphale’s eyes have drifted shut, and he’s lapping at Crowley’s cunt with the same sinful abandon he usually reserves for gianduja gelato. It’s all there, the dreamy concentration, the satisfied little moans, and the greedy flick of his tongue, whenever a drop of goodness threatens to escape too deep into the corners of his mouth. Only this time, it’s written across a different canvas. Dripping off it, in fact.

Crowley wants to watch. Oh, he badly wants to watch Aziraphale’s expressions flicker across his own face, the tight, frantic motions of his -- Aziraphale’s -- fingers working his own clit as he licks and licks and licks -- fuck. Crowley slams his eyes shut at the slippery demands of that infernal tongue, his own damned tongue, slithering faster than a human’s and somehow more lavishly. The elevator glides gently down floor after floor and Crowley is tightening down on nothing and thrusting forward against Aziraphale’s hungry mouth in desperation. Aziraphale wouldn’t start this and not finish it. He isn’t that much of a bastard. Is he?

What if someone presses the call button? What the devil is on all those intermediary floors, anyway?

Heat flares through Crowley from his cunt to the tips of his ears. Who the fuck cares. His angel has him right where he wants him and no one, _no one_ is going to stop them. No more skulking around, looking over their shoulders, voices muffled in the dark. No more furtive fucks in the bushes. No more stolen kisses, heart hammering half with desire and half with fear. They are free, they are invincible, and they are bloody celebrating. And if Aziraphale wants to celebrate by muffdiving in a celestial dumbwaiter, Crowley is all fucking for it.

“Yes, yes,” he moans, curling his fingers in all that hair gel as he slides effortlessly onto the orgasmic plateau, surfing happily in the wet aching pleasure. Aziraphale can tip him over now at any time, and he waits for it eagerly, panting, clenching these fat gorgeous thighs.

Aziraphale hums urgently against him, and alongside the juicy slather of his tongue Crowley can feel the vibration, his voice, and the echo of the mad scramble of his arm as he works himself fast and hard. That tongue slides over him just fucking perfectly once, twice, and that’s it, he’s crying out, he’s done for --

He's... somewhere. And nowhere. The feeling could be described as floating, probably, if Crowley didn't have the distinct sensation of his feet planted firmly on the -- alright, for the sake of the argument, he's going to call it a floor. 

He's about to open his mouth -- didn't he have one of those? -- to call Aziraphale's name, but the angel is already there. The spirit of him swirls around Crowley like Champagne bubbles, their essence reflecting off each other like fucking frost at sunrise. It's disgustingly undemonic and it is better than anything Crowley has ever felt.

**_Crowley?_ **

Aziraphale sounds -- feels? different than only moments before. Crowley doesn't care to explore the physics of it, but it's clear that he is no longer operating borrowed vocal cords.

**_Yeah. Here. I think._ **

**_Did you do something?_ **

Did he...? That's rich, coming from someone who, as far as Crowley can tell, has just reinvented the concept of transcendental orgasms. 

Speaking of which - is that still happening? Crowley feels too clear-headed for being mid-orgasm. And there's the issue of his body (or lack thereof). Still, there's an ongoing... pulse, a dizzying euphoria, that's hard to explain any other way. 

He tries to reach out, feels around for Aziraphale to see how he's faring with all this, but finds that he can't. Can't because Aziraphale is already in reach, in him and around him. The bubbling, sunshine-y sensation swells, a startled... laugh? then ebbs off again. 

**_Nuh-uh. Wasn't me._ **

**_Well then... what?_ **

This time it's Crowley who laughs. 

**_Jeez, angel, talk about a mind-blowing--_ **

_Fwump._ Before Crowley can finish his sentence, all non-sounds and non-sensations are vacuumed out of this plane of reality. Crowley blinks -- he can blink! -- in surprise and registers he definitely has a body again. He ignores the shooting pain in his knee, and looks up at Aziraphale. Up???

Aziraphale’s cunt is spasming under his mouth, Aziraphale’s head is tipped back against the wall and he’s crying out the orgasm Crowley was just shouting out of his body a second ago. Crowley is still coming, his clit thumping in waves against his fingers as he flicks his tongue against him, sucks him, groans into him. Did they share the same orgasm, Crowley dimly wonders, started in one body and finished in another? Aziraphale is going to say this is ineffable, isn’t he?

Crowley wants to ride it out, keep pressing slowly against himself as he clamps around those juicy aftershocks -- and more than that, he wants to give Aziraphale more, give him the second and third go they’ve never had time for -- but the lift is slowing down. He lifts his eyes to the display panel and sees they’re on floor 1137 and shifting into standard mode for the final descent. They haven’t the time.

But that won’t be true any more, Crowley thinks, as he presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s mound and pulls up his trousers for him. Not ever again. He rises to his feet and gives Aziraphale his fingers to suck. His angel attends to them greedily, a smile sparkling in his eyes, then hauls him in by the neck for a kiss.

“I just saved your beautiful arse,” Crowley growls into his lips. “None of those prats will ever bother you again.”

“My hero,” Aziraphale purrs, and even though there’s whimsy in it, Crowley feels the weight of his honesty too. His heart clenches and he feels a grin trying to break over his face. Aziraphale nuzzles his ear. “You’re safe too, my dear. They’re terrified of you now.”

Crowley pulls back to look at him. “What did you _do?_ ”

The lift floats to a stop before he can answer, but Crowley can see from Aziraphale’s smug expression as he straightens his waistcoat that he’s looking forward to sharing the whole story. Crowley secures his tie as the lift dings and the doors slide open. He’s already hatching plans to spoil Aziraphale thoroughly for the rest of the day. As they walk out of the building together, Aziraphale’s impish glance reminds him of what they’ve just done.

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale beats him to it. “Now _that_ was playing with fire.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Burning through the sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22654636) by [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86)




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